


Leads

by Meloxique



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Break Up, Deaf Clint Barton, Depression, F/M, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-06 21:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6771628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meloxique/pseuds/Meloxique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Busy chasing leads about the Winter Soldier’s whereabouts, no one knows that you’ve smuggled him to Romania. Not your best friend Tony. Not your neighbour Clint. Not Steve. No one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I know. Lots of pairings. I’m still wondering how I want to deal with it. Multiple endings, maybe? Or just see which guy the story has us end up with? If you have input, inputting in the comments would be greatly appreciated.

The air-conditioning in your apartment was broken so the trip to the Smithsonian was a welcomed one. The exhibit was on the bottom floor, announced by banners hung from the ceiling with Captain America’s profile in shadowed blues and reds. You followed the signs, skimming past the introduction written on the wall, the quote from the President, the giant mural of Steve rendered digitally to look like acrylic paint.

He was hovering over the glass memorial of James Buchanan Barnes. His cap, navy blue, undecorated, cast a shadow over his face but his eyes shone through. You curled past the children and settled a comfortable distance away from him. He glanced at you. You looked over the image of a younger, clean-shaven him frosted onto the glass and said, “Bucky, right?”

He turned sharply, staring, but when you met his gaze, he spun around and headed for the exit. “Wait,” you said, reaching for his jacket sleeve, “I don’t mean to startle.” He pulled his wrist away. You had not wanted to lose him in the crowd or resort to raising your voice but you realised you shouldn’t have disregarded his personal space. You surrendered your hands.

“How do you know that name?” he asked over his shoulder.

“We have a mutual friend.”

Slowly, Bucky faced you. The museum lights hit his eyes and, for a second, they glowed. “The man on the bridge,” he murmured.

“Steve.” You nodded to the mural near the exhibit’s entrance but he didn’t take his eyes off you. “He’s much cuter in person.” His brow flicked up. Then he remembered himself and schooled his expression.

“What do you want from me?” he said.

“Nothing,” you said, “I’m just here to tell you something.”

“What,” he snapped. “Who are you?”

You murmured your name. “I work for the government—”

His eyes flashed fear and then he was gone, pushing his way through the crowd. You grasped the air in his place and tried to call out to him but you could no longer make out his navy blue cap, not even near the exit. You kicked the ground. “Shit.”


	2. Errands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an embarrassing turn of events, I’ve realised that Bucky’s memorial in the Smithsonian exhibit actually refers to him as Bucky Barnes and I’ve been writing under the impression that Steve is the only one who calls him that and so it never outlasted their relationship/the army. Sorry, folks, should have researched more.

The taxi came to a gentle stop at the very steps of the compound. Warm, golden light streamed from the house’s many windows, battling with inky blue sky. You thanked your driver as he helped you with your luggage and waited until you could no longer hear the taxi’s purr before you rang the doorbell. It wasn’t terribly cold outside but you still shivered.

The door opened. Tony glanced down at the bag by your feet and your chest ached at his bloodshot eyes, the smell of alcohol on him. Music lilted from further within. You recognised it as the first act of _The Fantasticks_ but couldn’t determine whether it was the musical itself or just the soundtrack. Tony lifted up your luggage and brought it inside. You closed the door behind you.

The Christmas tree in the living room was lit up. Maria had picked a different colour for decorations each year and so Obadiah had kept that tradition. It was red this year. “Drink?” Tony said. He cleared his throat when he heard how hoarse his voice was.

“No thank you,” you murmured. “I can’t stay for long, Tony; my flight’s in a few hours. I just came to give you your present.”

“I didn’t get you anything.”

You shrugged. “You still have nine days.”

“You’ll be living in another city.” There was a bite to his words.

“We talked about this,” you sighed.

He went on as if you hadn’t spoken at all. “If you wanted independence, you could have just come here.” He looked around at his empty mansion. To you, he seemed tiny in the middle of it.

“Please don’t be like this on my last night.”

“Be like what? You know what today is and you’re leaving me!”

The volume of his voice startled you awake. You found yourself staring at the back of a car seat, at a laminated taxi driver’s authentication. The taxi was not moving. Nothing was. Traffic had not taken kindly to the reconstruction of Midtown. You peeled yourself off the window, fixing your hair. Sunlight stung your eyes. Cars beside you beeped and horned and honked. On the radio, Trish Talk began its hour about the Project Insight files leaked after SHIELD’s collapse.

“Crazy, huh?” your driver said. “It’s like they didn’t watch _Minority Report_.”

“No kidding.”

“Tony Stark,” Trish said, “Avenger and technology consultant for the intelligence agency, had no comment.”

The streets cleared up and you watched cranes and construction sites pass by as you were brought to Metro-General. “Thanks,” you said, handing your fare over the driver’s shoulder. He smiled at you through the rear-view mirror. 

A thin layer of dust permeated the city and the air was heavy with August. Both Claire and Clint glistened as they waited outside the hospital doors, just out of reach of the automatic sensors. Clint saw you first. He looked down at his lap, then tried to stand up. “Whoa, hey,” Claire said.

“I can walk,” he said. 

“Maybe, but I don’t need you tripping and suing me.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t sue you,” you said. “How are you, Claire?”

She scrubbed a hand over her face. “Tired. You superhero types need to chill.”

“Don’t look at me,” you said. To Clint, you held out your hand. “Come on. Traffic is crazy and taking the train at this hour would be a nightmare; we’re walking.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Claire said, her arms crossed, watching with a wrinkle between her eyebrows as you pulled Clint out of his wheelchair.

You shrugged. “I’m not pushing him all the way to Bed-Stuy.”

“That’s why I called you.”

“Your mistake,” you laughed.

“Thanks, Claire,” Clint said, waving. She rolled her eyes and you smiled. The two of you waited until she returned inside before you began to walk down the street. “You didn’t have to come, you know,” Clint told you.

“I know.”

“I mean, you probably have to pack.”

“I did that yesterday.”

“Still, you probably wanted today to be stress-free.”

“Believe it or not, picking you up from the hospital is the least stressful thing I’ve had to deal with lately.”

He shrugged and began to half-hum, half-whistle a song unfamiliar to you. Occasionally, he would bump into your bag and be forced to move away. The sun imposed on you from above. It was a blessing whenever someone exited a store, leaving the door open a sliver so you could feel the sweet kiss of air-conditioning. By the time you reached your apartment building, Clint’s shirt was a shade darker between his shoulder blades. He reached up and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Love summer,” he said. You laughed because he was being sincere.

You came upon the stairs. Clint’s eyebrows folded together slightly. Shifting your bag to your other hand, you said, “Come on,” and held his waist.

“I got it,” he said, but he leaned into your side and grabbed the railing. You walked him to the top floor, to the door with the ‘H’ plaque nailed above it. “Hey, what are you doing for dinner?”

“Going over to Natasha’s. I gotta feed her cat.”

“Where’d she go this time?”

You shrugged. “It’s safer when I only know the bare minimum. If you want to know where she is, ask her lawyer.”

“No thanks.”

“He’s not that bad.” You gave him a smile. “Get some sleep, Clint. And stop feeding Lucky pizza.”

“You know he looks for it in the trash.”

“I know.”

He watched you disappear into the apartment next to his. Shaking off your shoes, you deposited your keys and bag on the dining table and checked your phone. No reply from Tony. He evidently had no desire to see you off on your last night in New York.

Just before dinner, you took the subway to Little Ukraine. Liho was pawing at the door when you arrived. You bent down to smooth your hand over her head and then headed for the kitchen, grabbing the dry cat food from the cupboard mounted on the wall and pouring some in a bowl. You replaced her water as well and watched her eat for a moment, hand under your chin. 

There was a knock at the door. You exchanged a look with Liho. Natasha had never mentioned what to do in the event that there was a visitor while you took care of her cat. You stayed at the counter, staring at the door, wondering who else knew of this address.

“It’s Steve.” The words were muffled by the wood. You rushed to unlock the door. Steve smiled down at you, the blue of his eyes assaulting.

“Hey,” you said, moving aside so he could enter, “what are you doing here?”

“I brought food. Tony told me you have dinner here when Nat’s out of town.”

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” You watched him set a plastic bag on the bench top. “Liho would get lonely otherwise.”

“I also brought this.” He held up a manila folder teeming with papers. Some light reading for your flight to Washington. “Hopefully it’s enough for you to find him.”

“Thank you, Steve. I’ll keep you posted.”

He waved you off. “Let’s eat. I hope you like Thai food.” As an afterthought, he added, “I hope I like Thai food.” You laughed. You assumed it was on his list of things he was too old to understand. Tony’s words.

Steve turned out to enjoy Thai food. You were tempted to open a bottle of Natasha’s wine but neither of you were sure how she would react. You kissed Liho goodnight and hitched a ride on Steve’s motorcycle back to your apartment. “Have a safe flight tomorrow,” he said as you returned your helmet to him. He touched your elbow. You watched him drive off before you headed upstairs, Bucky’s dossier tucked under your arm.

You jammed in your key. Clint, communicating with Lucky in hushed, frantic whispers, shot to his feet as you entered the room. “What are you doing in my apartment?” you asked. He ran a hand over his hair, standing in front of your air-conditioning unit. There was an arrow in it. “You didn’t,” you said incredulously.

“I can fix it,” he said.

“I don’t even want to know how this happened.” Hawkeye never missed. 

“Drill arrow. I didn’t know. Sorry.” Clint moved to pull the arrow out but you grabbed his arm. 

“Don’t get electrocuted.”

“I unplugged it. Don’t worry.”

Sighing, you left him to his devices and bent down to give Lucky a scratch under his chin. He smiled up at you with his good eye. “What did you have for dinner?”

“Dog food.”

“Good boy.” You gave Lucky a belly rub before standing to deposit your bag on the coffee table. “What did _you_ have for dinner?”

“Chinese. What did you have?”

“Thai.” You ventured into the kitchen for a glass of water and saw a yellow post-it note stuck to the bench top. Sorry, it said, with a sad face drawn underneath, the eyes dotted too close together. At least, you thought it said that. Clint’s handwriting made reading a guessing game.

“Didn’t think you’d be back this early,” he said, behind you.

“I’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”

“Right.” He snapped his fingers. “I should go.”

“That’d be smart.”

“Safe flight.”

“Thanks.” You watched the door close behind him, then got ready for bed. With your air-conditioning broken, you were forced to sleep on top of your blanket. You checked your phone one last time. No text from Tony. You turned off the lights and rolled onto your side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t ask me what universe we’re set in. This story is a cocktail. A Molotov cocktail.

**Author's Note:**

> I encourage you to give me constructive criticism. If someone is out of character, if something seems illogical, if there is a typo, tell me.


End file.
